It's The Thought That Counts
by vicodin-vixens
Summary: House goes Christmas shopping. Enough said. Warning: Slash. We own nothing but an eggnog hangover and some broken resolutions.


**A/N: We know it's a little late (or early, depending on your perspective) but here's a little House and Wilson Christmas cheer!**

_**"Grandma got run over by a reindeer, walking home from our house Christmas Eve..."**_

Grandma was lucky.

House looked around at the hurricane of holiday madness he was currently standing in the eye of, and wondered, not for the first time since his arrival at the Quaker Bridge Mall, 90 minutes ago, when the _precis_e moment had been that he'd lost his fucking mind.

Christmas Eve. At the mall. Surrounded by the desperate and the disorganized.

House was neither of these things.

So why was he here, suffering through his 97th rendition of "Wonderful Christmastime"?

He was here because Chase was an idiot that should've been drowned in a bucket of eggnog.

Stupid wombat.

House amused himself for a few minutes by mentally listing all the things he hated about Australia, then looked at his watch.

Again.

7:42.

God.

He'd been standing in this line for 20 minutes.

He wasn't even _buying_ anything for Christ's sake.

How could he, when he didn't know what the hell he was looking for?

As much as it pained him to admit it, he needed help. And one of these Santa-hatted, tinsel jockeys was going to have to provide it.

Soon.

House gritted his teeth as someone bumped into him.

Again.

Alright. Enough was enough. This was his third store and his third epic line-up, and the 300th time someone had bumped into him.

Time for a new strategy.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialled Chase.

"Hello?"

"Call me back."

"House?"

"No, it's Santa Claus. Ho. Call me back."

"Where are you? I can barely hear you."

"Just call me back. It's your fault I'm here in the first place.

Before Chase could respond, he hung up.

3 minutes later, his phone MmmBopped to life.

House schooled his face into the best cheerful smile he could manage and answered it.

"Hi, Honey," House boomed into the phone with a sudden bonhomie that made Chase feel deeply unsettled. "Where are you? I'm in line at Macy's."

"House-"

"Really?! 75% off at J.C. Penny?! For the next hour only?!"

The crowd around him suddenly grew quiet. House continued chumming the water.

"The entire store?! Wow! Good luck, Honey. I'll meet you in the Food Court at 8:30."

Chase smothered a chuckle. "He'll appreciate it. Honestly."

House hung up without replying, and watched as the entire line and most of the surrounding browsers dashed for the door, presumably to pick J.C. Penny's carcass clean.

Ahh. The Spirit of Christmas. Alive and well.

Smirking, House limped toward the cash desk. The clerk gave him an icy look that would have been more effective had she not been wearing a furry Santa hat and flashing holly-berry earrings.

"Can I help you, Sir?"

"La Creuset. Where is it?"

"We don't carry La Creuset, Sir."

"Please tell me you're kidding."

It was the clerk's turn to smirk. "I'm afraid not, Sir. But you could try J.C. Penny." She eyed him pointedly, "I hear they're having a sale."

20 minutes later found House a little less than halfway to Cherry Hill, where according to Chase and Google, there was a store that carried La Creuset.

Wilson was such a girl. All misty-eyed over some pot he'd seen Ellen DeGeneres give away.

And here he was, driving through the snow on Christmas Eve to get it, all because Chase had insisted that his usual gift of nothing was insufficient, now that he and Wilson were "together".

Bah. Humbug.

Since when did sex equal cookware?

Yet here he was, skidding through red lights on his way to the Cherry Hill Mall.

To a store called Kitchen Kapers.

Kapers.

With a K.

Christ.

Suddenly his phone rang. "Sexual Healing." Wilson. Perfect.

"What?" House snarled.

To his credit, Wilson was unfazed by this.

"Where are you?"

"Out," House replied tersely.

"I see. Are you anywhere near a grocery store? I need a favour."

"I'm busy."

"I'm sure you are. I need you to pick up some candy for my Gingerbread house."

"You do it. I'm busy."

"Everything will be closed by the time I get out of here. Mrs. Ramirez is having a bad night. I promised Pediatrics I'd drop it off tomorrow, House. It's Christmas."

"You're a Jew."

"And you're an ass. What's your point?"

"Fine. I'll get candy."

"Thank-you. I need-"

House hung up and threw the phone in the backseat.

Bah. Humbug.

At 9 o'clock House limped through the doors of the Cherry Hill Mall, wishing he was home watching "Christmas Vacation" and taking a shot every time someone said the C-word.

_Some _traditions he liked.

After consulting the mall map and employing every guilt-trip manipulation he could think of, to get people to make way for the cripple, he made his way to Kitchen Kapers.

Which was empty.

A Christmas miracle!

"Merry Christmas!" chirped the sales girl, who was sporting antlers and a glittery snowflake necklace. She held out a plate of cookie-things. "Have some Pfefferneuse! How can I help you?"

"La Creuset."

Her eyes lit up.

Great. She worked on commission. Whatever. Now he could get his stupid pot and go the hell home.

"We carry a wide range of La Creuset products, sir. Did you have anything in mind?"

"A pot."

"Oh, well, what sort of pot was it? We have-"

She kept talking but House couldn't bring himself to pay attention. Something about a Moroccan Tagine in kiwi or a Doufur in cobalt or cherry. At some point he must have agreed to a Bouillabaisse pot in flame because she was ringing it up.

"That comes to $375. Would you like it gift wrapped?"

House sighed, "Fine."

Antlers grinned, "Your wife will be thrilled. La Creuset's the best."

House reached for his wallet, then stopped short.

This wasn't him.

He peered at her nametag. "Actually, Kortney, my wife has a prostate and is used to disappointment. Merry Christmas."

He turned on his heel and limped out of the store.

If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

House stopped at a gas station on the way home and bought a six-pack of Tic-Tacs and a Pine Air-Freshener. He limped through his own door shortly after eleven, kicked off his shoes and dropped his purchases on the piano.

He was into his second scotch and playing "Silent Night" when Wilson got home.

"Hey."

House didn't speak, but stopped playing and tossed something at him. Wilson caught it clumsily.

"Tic Tacs?"

"Candy."

Wilson sighed, "Thanks."

House played a smattering of something vaguely holiday-inspired, and announced bluntly, "I hate the mall."

Coat still on, Wilson sat down on the piano bench next to House, waiting.

House looked at him. "I _really_ hate the mall."

Wilson smiled. "You don't often come down from Mount Crumpit. Why were you at the mall?'

"Because I'm sleeping with you."

"And there was a meeting of the 'I Slept With Wilson' fanclub at Cinnabon?"

"I was _Christmas _shopping."

Wilson's eyes widened in genuine surprise. "Why?"

House looked at Wilson and smiled, "I have absolutely no idea." He shifted slightly closer, so that their legs were touching and began to play "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas."

Wilson leaned against him gently, "This is all I really wanted anyway."

"Good, cause it's all you're getting." House abandoned his playing and reached for something small and green on the piano-top. He held it above their heads.

Wilson eyed it suspiciously, "Car freshener?"

"Pretend it's mistletoe."

Wilson laughed softly, "Merry Christmas, Sparky."

"Whatever. Shitter's full."


End file.
